


Breathless

by infinite_regress



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 12 can tango, Dancing, F/M, Kissing, Romance, Slow Burn, Whouffaldi Week 2016, clara is an open book, relationships are like souffle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_regress/pseuds/infinite_regress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Clara find an empty class room with a record player in it during the Blitz. They dance and talk about books and cooking, when what they mean to say is something else entirely. Probably.  </p><p>Missing scene, set mid season 9, after the 'Girl Who Died' and before 'Face the Raven.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Whouffaldi week (very late) for the prompt: Class room, vinyl, move over.

 

‘We’ve done what we came to do, we should go now,’ the Doctor said.

Clara was not to be put off. ‘But it’s Coal Hill school, summer of 1942! Come on.’

‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘When has that ever bothered you?’

He groaned as she disappeared through a window, hitching up her deep blue full-length dress that was pulled tight at the waist, squeezing her body in that white dotted bodice through the window, bare arms pulling her through to the other side, and dropped neatly onto the floor. Not that he was looking at what she was wearing. Not that he’d _noticed_ , not at all. He sighed and followed her through.

Who was this breathless woman rushing from one adventure to the next? ‘Don’t go native,’ he’d said, for all the good it had done. She seemed more reckless, not less. How did that happen? He shook his head at her back disappearing along the dark corridor, and jogged to catch her up.

She stopped at a door. ‘It’s my class room. Or it will be.’ He could see her smile even in the darkness, and without waiting for him to speak she opened the door and stepped inside. The full moon shone through the window, pooling in circles on the floor, and the navy skirt rustled as she stepped through the door.

The desks and chairs were pushed to the sides of the room, and a gramophone sat on the teachers desk at the front. Clara reached for the light switch, but he put his hand over hers before she could switch it on. She turned to him, so close he could smell her shampoo, always apple and something he couldn’t place.

He coughed, ‘Blackout,’ and quickly stepped back. As if to reinforce his point, the wail of the siren rang out across the East End. The Luftwaffe’s nightly assault on London had begun. ‘Air raid, we should go,’ he nodded toward the door.

‘I know for a fact not one single bomb fell on Coal Hill.’ she said, and walked to the black board and picked up a box of chalk. ‘Look, actual chalk. Not seen that for years. Right up your street.’ She threw the box at him and he caught it awkwardly, looked down at it, then popped it in his pocket. She ran her hand over the gramophone, and in the moonlight she saw the record the class had been dancing to. Or maybe it was two teachers, steeling a romantic moment once the kids had gone. Maybe, it was the English teacher and the janitor, who knows, but Clara set the needle to the vinyl, and as the air raid siren faded a tango took its place. She stood head held high, spine straight, and held out a hand.

‘I don’t dance,’ he said shaking his head, ‘I’m not dancing.’ She gave him a _look_ and he reluctantly clasped her hand. She hooked her other hand under his arm, and placed her palm firmly between his shoulders. ‘I don’t get a vote, do I?’ he said plaintively, but his hand slipped around to the small of her back, and his feet started to move over the floor, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, and he lead her in time with the rhythm, across the room.

‘You can dance!’ she exclaimed, a little swept away. ‘Who gave you lessons? Was it Ginger Rodgers? Fred Astaire?’ she asked, smiling. ‘Or Perhaps it was…the _president’s wife_?’ she said, with a wicked gleam in her eye.

He harrumphed, added one more reason to detest Missy to the long list, and said, ‘A lot of people don’t know the difference between the Argentine and American Tango. The Argentinians created a beautiful and intimate social dance. The Americans _popularised_ it.’

‘Where did you learn to dance then?’

He ignored the question, four-stepped her again and said. ‘I _can_ dance. Doesn’t mean I _want_ to.’

‘You liked it well enough with the Vikings.’

‘That was different. It was…’ he paused, and thought, we were in a well-lit barn, with lots of raucous villagers, and you were not _this_ close, and you were not wearing _that_ dress with your eyes shining like stars in the moonlight. ‘It was just _different_ ,’ he grumbled.

‘You’re impossible,’ she said.

They took two steps, then he swivelled his torso to the left and changed direction. ‘Thing with the tango is,’ he said, ‘you have to plan ahead, think eight steps into the future. It can take a lifetime to master.’ He stepped forward and then rocked his weight back, bringing them both into a swoop. Her hair bounced off her shoulders, and she laughed out loud. ‘You’ve got some moves, old man,’ she said, a bit breathless.

He found his hands were on her hips and his lips said, ‘You sway nicely too.’ Then he added, ‘Well, your co-ordination and timing seem perfectly adequate.’

She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw as they four-stepped across the class room and dipped into the pond of moonlight. ‘I think,’ she said lightly, ‘that relationships are like soufflé.’

‘Soufflé?’

‘It’s not the egg,’ she said as he spun her at arms-length, ‘and it isn’t the milk,’ she breathed as she spun again, then stopped with her back to his chest and looked up at his face. ‘It’s the way they mix together that makes the dish.’ 

He frowned. ‘Now you’re being mysterious.'

‘Me?’ she laughed, wiggled free then quick-stepped around his back. ‘I’m an open book.’

Bemused he said, ‘What’s _that_ mean?’

She tiptoed, a hand on his hip, and said into his ear, ‘Maybe one day you’ll take me down from the shelf and find out,’ then slithered around into his frame again, and they resumed their promenade across the floor. The music propelled them, and they tangoed in and out of pools of moonlight while a million Londoners huddled together for comfort during the Blitz. Her hand was warm in his and her small body pressed close to him then twirling away raised a thousand questions, and her eyes were surely saying something if he could ever work it out. They turned, dipped and sidestepped, found their rhythm and balance until the music slowly faded, and they faltered, eye to eye, both happily out of breath.

‘Seems to me,’ he said, as he turned and stepped across the class room, 'doing the tango takes a leap of faith.’ 

‘Hey, don’t leave me hanging,’ she said in a small voice as she watched him walk away. Her arms fell slack by her sides and her shoulder’s drooped. He flicked through the pile of records and put another on the player. The 12-bar blues of Glenn Millar’s _Moonlight Serenade_ filled the air.

‘Clara,’ he said taking her hand again, ‘do you want to dance?’

‘Yes, I want to dance,’ she said, ‘Do you though, Doctor? Do you want to dance?’

Her eyes flicked to his lips and he knew the answer. ‘I do,’ he said softly, ‘in fact, I’ve finally realised it’s high time we danced.’ He drew her closer and kissed her gently, and they found a new tune to sway to, and spun each other, restless and breathless, through the Blitz on that balmy night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a practice for something, kind of an experiment. I have no Idea if it works or not, please let me know one way or the other.


End file.
